


Perennial

by ironwreath (broodingmischief)



Series: dungeons & dragons [4]
Category: Dungeons & Dragons (Roleplaying Game), Original Work
Genre: Bodyguard, Chronic Illness, Developing Friendships, Dungeons & Dragons Character Backstory, F/F, Gen, Personal Growth, Pining, Siblings, Women In Power
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-11-22
Updated: 2021-02-24
Packaged: 2021-03-07 20:41:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 11
Words: 7,570
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26823835
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/broodingmischief/pseuds/ironwreath
Summary: Snippets into Iona Elhaine; high elf samurai fighter and Lady of the Redwood's Aegis. Dedicated to a fault and looking to improve a culture that's slow to change, but such is the way of Syngorn. Set in Exandria.Cross posted from Tumblr.Art of Iona here.
Series: dungeons & dragons [4]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1638913





	1. Escort

**Author's Note:**

> Any number between brackets indicates the session the fic takes place around. If there are no brackets, it takes place before or after the game or at an ambiguous point in time between sessions. These ficlets are in chronological order of the game's events and character's lives, not in the order I wrote them.
> 
> Iona is a backup character for Cihro from Four and a Half Elves; she's one of the personal bodyguards for his half-sister. Some chapters will intersect with the party's adventures before she officially joins. 
> 
> “Many people seem to think it foolish, even superstitious, to believe that the world could still change for the better. And it is true that in winter it is sometimes so bitingly cold that one is tempted to say, ‘What do I care if there is a summer; its warmth is no help to me now.’ Yes, evil often seems to surpass good. But then, in spite of us, and without our permission, there comes at last an end to the bitter frosts. One morning the wind turns, and there is a thaw. And so I must still have hope.” — Vincent Van Gogh

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Iona arrives in Syngorn with her baby sister.

Anger and poison boiled in her blood. The Feywild – or the glimmering spires of Syngorn backed by the kaleidoscope of colours of the Feywild – didn’t shift into focus. They remained blurred and off-balance as the dust settled around Iona, her mother, and the infant with them.

Bickering reached her ears, adding to the din pounding in her temples, and then her baby sister began to wail on top of it, creating a shrill cacophony. Part of the arguing sounded like her dad. Chaos – utter chaos.

Three figures stood at the outskirts of a tall, circular room of a tower, outside the door that punched through its wall. Sure enough, one was her father. He tried to shove past two guards, but they blocked him, crossing their halberds and pushing in retaliation.

Faolin raised an accusatory finger at the soldiers, to no effect. The gesture was so unlike him, too hostile. He was tall, but not imposing – lean with auburn hair flowing out like the surf and golden eyes that were made to quell anger, not incite it.

“Those are my _children_ ,” he hissed. “You are in our domain, under our protection.”

“And you’re in Syngorn,” the left guard said. “Our laws are still our laws. We’re following orders; no unapproved children.”

“She’s already here,” Iona’s mother pointed out. She sounded hoarse and irritated. “We only want out of the city. Iona is sick.”

“Not without an escort,” the second guard said. “You weren’t supposed to be let in in the first place.”

“What’s a newborn going to do?” Iona spat, hoping to dispose of some the venom inside her by launching it at them. “What were we supposed to do? We were nearly ambushed. Are me and mine not adequate escorts?”

“Faolin isn’t of Syngorn,” guard one pointed out. His eyes flicked over her from over his shoulder. “And you and your mother are unfit.”

“What’s going on here?”

A fourth figure joined the mix. Iona recognized the curtain of braided gold hair, leather armour, and the swoop of two finely-crafted swords. The guards flinched and hastily bowed with a quick, “Lady Theotae.”

“These _are_ our own,” she declared, robbing them of their authority, arms folded tightly across her chest. “You will let them out.”

The guards exchanged a panicked look from beneath their helmets. If their orders were from the High Warden, they could stand their ground, but in the face of Theotae’s unrelenting presence, Iona saw them buckle like they had their knees kicked in. They either received Theotae’s wrath now or someone else’s later – it was about deciding whose was worse.

“Do you want to be the ones responsible for withholding care to one of the Lady of the Redwood’s bodyguards?” Theotae pressed, stepping forward, into their space.

“No, but the child—”

“Comes with me as well,” Theotae finished for them. “I’ll escort them personally. No harm will come to Syngorn.”

They relented at last, splitting their halberds apart and opening a path. Theotae and Faolin strode in before the polearms were fully raised, Faolin rushing to her mother and sister to help calm and _meet_ her for the very first time. Theotae appeared taller as she approached – likely because Iona was hunched over with an arm clutched around her stomach.

“Thank you,” she managed, and hazarded a step forward. The room slanted, then stopped – Theotae caught her around the middle, one hand on her stomach and the other landing on her back like a set of pinchers. The pressure made Iona want to vomit, heat flaring in her throat and head, but she held it in. She would _not_ throw up on her or Theotae’s boots or show anymore weakness in front of the guards that belittled her family.

Theotae hefted an arm around her shoulders while a hand settled at her waist, none the wiser. The nausea settled.

“Let’s be on our way, then,” Theotae announced, helping Iona through the exit with her parents close at hand. Orla’s cried waned as they exited down a short staircase flanked by two pulsating orbs, a few of the dozen Threshold Crests that anchored Syngorn to the Feywild.

Like anything even mildly out of the ordinary, they were the subject of odd looks as they made their way through the streets. Theotae was their barrier against any rumours or any sort of escalation, though, diverting gazes and keeping lips sealed shut. The tension mounted on Iona’s malaise made her feel like she was hallucinating everything.

Faolin hovered behind them like he wanted to usher his praise and thanks, but their troupe was silent. Iona understood – her gratefulness went beyond words. They broke one of Syngorn’s laws in bringing in an unapproved child, even if the circumstances were complicated. If Iona had been able to keep her mother and sister on the material plane or found another entrance to the Feywild, she would have – but the risk of keeping them in the Verdant Expanse while dragons razed nearby settlements was too great.

A bird streaked past, close enough that feathers brushed her cheek. It circled once before her older sister abruptly landed into view and straightened before them, dusting off an emerald jacket. Theotae jerked to a stop, Iona with her.

“Hello, all,” she said, slightly winded, raising a single hand laden with rings. A few more Verdant Guard in their peripheral started, then relaxed when they saw an eladrin. Eireann reached for Iona. “I can take her from here, my lady.”

Theotae’s grip reflexively tightened. Iona gave an awkward flap of her far hand as if to pat her shoulder. “It’s my sister.”

Theotae relaxed, nodded curtly, then helped transfer Iona to her sister’s shoulder in the same position, only flipped. Eireann stood taller than Theotae – it would’ve been cumbersome, but her sister bent over to accommodate.

Eireann planted a palm against her stomach. Before Iona could protest or snap, warmth radiated outwards and pulsed through her entire body. Sweet, sweet relief coursed through her, supplanting the sickness building and thrashing inside her. She sighed. From there she was able to peel away and stand on her own, swiping a bead of sweat from her forehead.

“Thanks,” she said again, with the impression she’d be repeating the sentiment a lot in her near future. Her sister only grinned and nudged her, then fell into step beside her group.

With her sickness removed, Iona was left to contend with a quiet gravity while Theotae escorted them. She knew her loyalty ran deep, but she never asked herself how deep, too afraid. She didn’t want to lose sight of the line that set professional and personal apart.

Devotion to her work was part of her molecular makeup, but now, she knew, it was also to Lady Theotae herself. She spent decades wondering how much Theotae was willing to sacrifice for her, which pieces on her board she’d move to help her in her time of need – if Iona’s problems were as important to her as Theotae’s were to her.

Like many aspects with Lady Theotae, her answer was nebulous and malleable, prone to change. Objectively, Theotae had taken control of a situation that was out of Iona’s hands, then made peace and righted it. She didn’t have to, but she did. 

The seeds of her romantic interest were already planted. Iona had nothing but admiration and respect for her pride, her tenacity, that she would stop at nothing to achieve what she set out to do. Her help with a matter so close to Iona’s heart was the water that nourished them, coaching her feelings into something deeper. 


	2. Comb

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Iona brings her little sister a gift.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For promptober 2020.

For all of Orla’s lack of energy, pallid features, and overall frailness, her smile could light up a room. And it did – walking into her bedroom was Iona’s favourite part of her visits. It didn’t matter that she was at an outpost in the thick of the Verdant Expanse. She was on her feet today, but still in winter form, and twirled with a brilliant smile, like sunlight on fresh snow. Iona returned it in kind.

“Hello, sweet girl,” she greeted.

Orla danced into her arms for an embrace. Iona sat them on the bed after their initial giddiness waned and turned her knees towards her sister.

“I brought you something,” she said, withdrawing a small box from her satchel and setting it on her thigh. Orla’s eyes grew wide.

“If you didn’t bring one, I’d be worried. You always bring something with you.”

“Is that your way of saying I have to from now on?”

“Yep.”

“Well, if I have to buy your affection, then so be it.”

Iona plucked the lid off the box. Inside sat a hair comb on a sheet of wool. On it were flowers of every colour interspersed with thin green leaves and tiny bubbles of pearls. Orla practically squealed, jamming her hands over her mouth. 

“Turn around,” Iona instructed, pleased.

Orla hopped once to turn her back to Iona but continued to wiggle on the spot. Her hair only reached above her shoulder blades and today she wore it in a loose braided crown while the rest hung free. There was the tiniest of ripples to it – what would have been full-blown princess waves like Iona and Eireann’s were also disrupted by her illness. But, if anything, it made her resemble their mother more.

Hair was important to the elves of Syngorn, a symbol of good health and commitment. More elves were starting to embrace shorter styles, but it hadn’t quite caught on yet, and they were still exploring what it meant, good and bad. Iona wanted to include her sister as much as possible in practises that were normal. 

She positioned it at the center of Orla’s plait, its teeth sinking easily into place. Orla half stumbled to her dresser and mirror, grabbed a hand-mirror, and held it up behind her head. Iona followed, her smile more warm and subdued.

Orla dropped the mirror back to the dresser and turned to slam Iona in another hug. “Thankyouthankyouthankyou,” she gasped.

“Easy,” Iona cautioned, catching her balance. She struggled between wanting to see her sister at her liveliest versus not wanting her to exhaust herself on excitement. She already sounded winded enough. “I’m glad you like it. I wasn’t sure whether to compliment your white hair or spring hair – luckily this one does both.”

Orla peeked up at her with a sly grin. “Did Lady Theotae help give you ideas?”

Iona frowned. “No. And if you’re a smart girl, you’ll sit back down and I’ll tell you what really happened.”


	3. Protect

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Iona’s father gifts her with a new bow and quiver.

Faolin hugged her like he was trying to rival a giant’s strength. Her mother’s home was fuller with him in it even though he smelled of his own – moss on rocks and the musky, sweet fragrance of dried leaves. Bright, buttery light filled the space from an open window, illuminating his unpacked bag on the floor. The call of her mother’s parakeet came from the adjacent room like she wanted to join in.

“Dad,” Iona coughed. “Quit trying to break my ribs, please.”

He unwound his arms and grabbed hold of her biceps to admire her at elbow’s length. Iona rarely saw affection, and her father had a sixth sense for it – he tried to make it up to her in full whenever he visited, giving her enough attention for every person she knew, then ten more.

“Slayer of the Storm Wyvern,” he said dreamily, eyes glistening with pride.

“It’s pompous,” she sighed. “I was only doing my job. It’s what any guard would have done.”

“But any other guard might not have survived and succeeded.” His hands slid from her. “There’s no need to be humble, sweetie. Your older sister isn’t – she won’t shut up about it and she didn’t even kill the damn thing.”

Iona shifted her weight. “It’s not being humble,” she objected, cheeks reddening. “It’s being realistic. I can recognize what I did took skill without wanting to be rewarded for it. My title was long enough already.”

Her dad curled his fingers against his lips and half-turned away, looking behind him to a case sitting beside his bag of clothes and personal effects. “Then I suppose you don’t want to see what I brought you,” he said with a playful gloominess.

“No, I do.”

Faolin clapped his hands together in triumph and twirled to the case, hefting it horizontally onto a nearby armchair by the unlit fireplace. Iona hovered as he flipped the clasps and popped it open.

Inside on a bed of plum coloured velvet laid a large, lavish quiver. Its body was the iconic green of the Emerald Archers and its opening and base were coated with a filigree of gold. Iona would have been impressed at that alone, but out of its mouth sprouted the tell-tale tip and notch of a longbow. She cocked her head.

“Go on,” her dad encouraged, tweaking her arm, then stepped back. She lifted the quiver from its casing with one hand while the other grasped the neck of the bow and slid it out. The bow was expertly crafted, made of yew and embroidered with autumn leaves – captured in their transition from life to death but never falling free. Iona slid her palm near the grip and found a name engraved in Sylvan. Beside it, a series of small, glowing dots looped into a figure eight.

“Analemma,” she read aloud.

“It’s magic,” her dad explained, eager in voice but collected in body, hands folded in front of him. “Both the quiver and the bow. I wanted to name it Pepper, but I figured you wouldn’t appreciate my joke.”

“Dad,” she breathed, fond and exasperated in equal measure, folding the bow against her chest. She was too amused to even ask what the joke meant.

“Don’t think of it as a reward if it bothers you too much.” He laid a hand on her back. “I heard about how your last one broke. It’s practical, isn’t it?”

“Very. Thank you. The Emerald Archers would’ve supplied me with a new one – and I have money, besides that. You didn’t have to do this.”

Faolin relieved Iona of the bow and laid it over the case, then turned her to face him head-on. “Iona, my child, you’re missing the point – it’s a gift. You don’t need to justify everything. Accept it, and my love.”

“Sorry. It’s habit.”

“You’re protecting the city, lady Theotae, and your sister – but you also need to protect yourself, year-round.”

Iona’s gaze fell to his chest, fighting to stand still as her thoughts wrested with themselves. “Thank you, dad.”

“You make your family proud,” he said, dipping forward to touch foreheads. “The only person you need to worry about disappointing is yourself.”

Iona closed her eyes and nodded, shoulders relaxing. Her father smiled and pressed a swift kiss between her eyes, then withdrew. “Would you like to test it out? I’d like to see a re-enactment.”

“Not unless you can summon another wyvern, but I’d rather you didn’t.”


	4. Duty

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Theotae invites Iona to dance.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Accompanying art here](https://64.media.tumblr.com/05d6b1ba43b2551bc3a6f6ee211cd021/adfeab3c0e31fb8c-a9/s1280x1920/eeb3abb57614f5f207445f77b40131d0d4c8512b.png)!!

Dancing music streamed from the open door to Iona's right, joined by laughter, chatter, and the soft glassy chime of drinks lifting or landing on platters. Light spilled onto the corridor floor, amber and sunflower-yellow, while the scent of expertly crafted foods rose and fell.

Symania leaned against the wall on the other side of the door, the heel of a foot propped up and arms crossed. They were used to this – standing in companionable silence while the house hosted a ball.

A figure bustled out. Symania straightened and Theotae looked to each of them with a smile. Her dress of the evening was a deep pine green with gold vines embroidered across the wrists and the top plane of her chest. Gold skirts spilled out of a split down its front, flashing in the light, and her hair was styled normally. Beautiful, but modest and comfortable by her standards.

“There you are,” she said. “Why don’t you two come in?”

“Aren’t we on duty?” Symania asked.

“There are extra guards here tonight – and the chance of anyone attacking me doesn’t seem any more likely just because you two are having a drink or dance.”

“I feel like that’s an invitation for just that,” Iona said.

“If it happens, it happens,” Theotae said, nonchalant. “Not a soul here is unprepared. You have your weapons and mine are close by. I insist; come inside.”

Symania and Iona shared a glance, then stepped closer, the tension dispersing. Theotae nabbed their elbows and steered them into the ballroom. It was decorated lavishly, with guests and staff mingling to the sides while the middle remained open for dancing to the live band playing at the head of the room.

Symania broke off to snatch up a goblet of wine, smiled at Iona over the brim of her cup, and found a table to stand beside. Theotae still held Iona’s arm; she turned in towards her.

“Symania’s gotten her drink – why don’t we dance?” she invited, lips still curled in a smile.

Iona prayed her expression didn’t betray her flare of panic.

“You know how, right?” Theotae added, which felt like a confirmation that it had. Iona swallowed the anxious knot in her throat – it wasn’t why she panicked, but she accepted the excuse.

“I do,” she said, ironing out her voice. “It’s just been some time. I’m out of practise.”

“You’re a good fighter – it’ll come back to you, I’m sure.” Theotae slid an arm under hers to rest across the breadth of her upper back and drew her into the flock of cavorting elves. “I’d be happy to teach you even if you didn’t.”

Iona’s nerves made her indecisive about who did what but Theotae took charge, grasping her hand so Iona’s rested on the soft bed of her palm. Iona looped her arm over her shoulders to mirror the one on hers, and then Theotae stepped to the music like it was second nature, dancing on air. Iona followed, not quite as graceful but holding her own, instinctively relaxing to be pulled by the melody.

Theotae’s smile didn’t waver in the slightest, but it was closer now, as was the amused twinkle in her eye – or maybe that was the chandelier, creating new pinpricks of light. Iona tried to make herself present in the music and the gliding of her feet, but her attention was a traitor that drifted to their points of contact – their hands, their arms.

It was ridiculous. Iona wasn’t shy, but she was reserved. Dancing was an intimate form of casual contact for her even if Theotae had danced with all of her staff at one point or another. For Theotae, it was customary and expected. For Iona, it was a rarity.

“If you’re worried about what everyone is thinking, don’t,” Theotae said, drawing her gaze, which Iona had fixed on the fabric of her shoulder. “You dance well. If anyone is judging, they’re a fool.”

“Thank you, my lady. I do feel a bit underdressed, though.”

“I don’t know, I’m quite fond of the Emerald Archer uniform,” Theotae clicked. “It puts me at ease.”

“I think you might be biased.”

“Aren’t we all?” Theotae grinned. “The Emerald Archers have been with us from the beginning. You should be honoured to have worked to be part of such a prestigious force. They represent protection incarnate.”

Heat pricked along Iona’s scalp and face. “At least it’s easy to move in,” she conceded.

Theotae twirled her on the spot, right in time for the music to melt into a slower tempo and she swapped their positions, slipping her hand into Iona’s. Iona tried not to catch her breath on the soft notes of her perfume at the rush of air and took the lead, hand unconsciously sliding to Theotae’s middle back.

“Enjoying yourself?” Theotae asked.

“It feels like I've only just joined, but yes.”

“I wanted you two to participate tonight. I should’ve fetched you sooner.”

“We’re bodyguards, my lady.”

“That doesn’t make me want to seem any less appreciative of what you do,” Theotae said. “Everyone deserves a break and to have moments where they can let their guard down.”

“I think the only time my guard is truly down is when I’m trancing,” Iona mused. There were a few other instances she could think of, but it mostly held true.

“You know, I may be similar – perhaps we should both take this lesson into account.”

“Perhaps, my lady.”

The rhythm slowed into nothing before polite applause took its place. Iona guided Theotae to the edge of the dance floor by the hand and bowed at its edge. Their hands separated. Iona’s pulse continued to race in its absence, a cocktail of butterflies and exertion.

Theotae reached for Symania’s table. “Are you done with that wine? Come here, it’s your turn.”


	5. Trusted

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Iona does Theotae’s hair for the Margrave’s dinner.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This one takes place the same night Cihro kills Corsun from "Daughter pt.2."

[36]

Iona leaned into the room with her fingers perched on the door handle. “You asked for me?” 

Theotae sat across from her at a vanity and met her gaze in the mirror, her expression lifting. She wore a royal blue gown with a high collar, but the front split open in a small cleft nearly all the way to her navel. Tiny beads transitioned in swirling patterns from dark to light blue around the opening and wrists.

Her hair hung loose and her circlet rested on the vanity beside other jewellery, makeup, brushes, and two lanterns. Her legs were folded to one side under the stool – Iona could tell by the way the skirts fell. She vaguely recalled her wearing the outfit in Syngorn before, but was unsure if she’d worn it in Westruun.

“Yes, yes. Come in.” Theotae beckoned her with a wave of a wrist. Iona slipped in proper, bumped the door closed, and approached. “It’s a bit of an odd request, but I’m without my lady's maid. Would you like to do my hair?”

“You don’t want one of the hairdressers from the city?” 

“I considered it,” Theotae mused, combing her fingers backward through said hair, “but decided against it. And then I considered doing it myself, but I think there’s a certain level of appearance that’s expected of me.”

“I’m not sure that whatever I can do will be better than what you can do."

“Oh, don’t put yourself down, Iona,” Theotae chastised. “It’ll be far tidier than if I did it. I don’t have enough mirrors and hands to see what I’m doing in here.”

“I’m not putting myself down, it’s more of an observation,” Iona clarified. “I’m not a stylist or a maid. Why did you decide against it?”

Theotae regarded her a beat before answering. “I like to trust the people I work with. It’s not that I don’t trust the hairdressers to do a good job, it’s that I don’t trust them as people. You’ve known me longer than anyone here – you know what I like.”

“Fair point."

Her heart hiccuped when she realized she’d agreed. She never wanted to decline, simply wanted to hear Theotae’s reasoning – she’d always been judicious. She half expected Theotae would come to the same conclusion when she asked, that she should hire someone more qualified and dismiss Iona, but that meant doubting Theotae put as much thought into it. She gave most of her choices a similar level of consideration as Iona’s, or so she thought.

It wasn’t like this was the first time she had done Theotae’s hair, either. Iona just never tired of hearing that she trusted her, especially in matters beyond protection.

Iona revealed none of her inner dialogue as she reached for the golden tresses and carded her nails through it in preparation. It was already brushed, dried, and smelled distantly of a bath.

“Do you want it up or down?”

“I have nothing on the back to show off, but up,” Theotae decided.

“Any requests?”

“Surprise me.” Theotae tilted her head left to right. “Within reason, of course – the circlet still has to fit.”

Iona nodded and got to work. Her initial hyper-awareness of the texture of her hair – as smooth and cool as a drink of water – gave way to her usual concentration and professionalism. She started with a small braid at each temple, like Theotae normally wore, but blended and twisted them into a large, bundled bun with a larger plait draped along the side. She occasionally reached past her shoulder for a bobby pin, but soon Theotae picked up on when she needed one and started passing them to her.

“Your hair is a lot easier to work with than mine,” Iona commented. “It’s longer, but less stubborn.”

“All the more reason to let you help.” When Iona said nothing, she added, “You don’t really get to partake in these events.”

“No. I don’t mind. I like dressing up, but—” She shook her head. “I would rather choose the parties I want to go to than show up out of obligation or necessity.” She levelled Theotae an apologetic look. “No offense.”

“No, you would be right, at least for some.” Theotae shrugged, then straightened her posture. “I suppose that’s a secondary goal with all this – a little bit more of your involvement in the dressing up part without all the politics.”

Iona smiled. “I still have to listen to all the same speeches.”

Theotae grinned. “But you don’t have to mingle, do you?”

“No, and I prefer to keep it that way. Easier to do my job when someone’s not in my face.”

Iona added the finishing touches in silence – a loose lock to drip past her ear, and another in the back to lead the eyes to her face. She started when she caught Theotae staring at her with the same amused half-smile in the glass.

“My lady?” she prompted.

“Always so serious, Iona,” Theotae said with a click of her tongue. “You get this look on your face whenever you’re focused on something. If I didn’t know you better, I’d say my hair was as serious for you as a research project.”

Iona opened her mouth, then swiftly closed it. She was unsure if she felt insulted or flattered, which was a common crossroad for her to be stranded at. Theotae knowing what she looked like when she wasn’t paying attention left her bottling butterflies in her stomach, though. To be seen and known when she was just _existing_ made her feel soft and alive. She knew Theotae was just being smart for observing and had no motivation for it beyond that, but it wasn’t like her emotions had any mind for the truth.

It was an exaggerated feeling for such a throwaway remark, but Iona never did things by halves, even unwillingly. She settled for another shake of her head and stepped back to assess her work.

“I do my hair for combat, so it should hold up,” she said. She folded her arms behind her back and gave a flex of her hands, hoping the air would catch whatever invisible feeling she dropped from them. But she couldn’t let them go – they always found their way back.

Theotae admired her hair from the vanity, then plucked a hand-mirror and held it up behind her head, tipping it to see from all angles. “Good. Thank you, Iona, that’ll do just fine.”

Iona dipped her head in a bow. “I’ll see you outside when you’re ready to leave.”


	6. Cold

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Iona and Azariah arrive outside Westruun.

[107]

Westruun was colder than Syngorn – far colder than Iona prepared for, and she shuddered as she and Azariah stepped out of the tree. A foot of snow blanketed the surrounding field and punished her ankles and feet for having the audacity to not wear some thicker boots.

Syngorn received snow on occasion, but rarely did it last. It was more wet slush and frozen rain than anything, gone within a few days of its arrival.

Iona could appreciate the scenery even if it was freezing – hills of soft opalescent powder untouched by the city rolled out like a carpet before them. The trees stood bare and naked with spindly arms for branches. Everything was blue and grey, crisp and biting.

It reminded her of Orla, briefly, but her sister’s cold complexion wasn’t a choice. It was something within her sucking the life out of what would be a girl who was spring. The trees here would bloom again – for Orla, that wasn’t a certainty.

She and Azariah approached the southern gates, crunching their way out of snow and onto a frosty dirt path cleared for travelers. Iona met the eye of whoever they crossed, a simple warning to keep their distance. Once they were settled and waiting to the side of the gate, their message sent, Iona shifted her weight from foot to foot, arms folded around her ribs.

“Cold, dear?” Azariah asked without looking at her. Iona glanced her way – she was smiling, completely unbothered by the weather. 

Iona scrubbed her hands together. A spark of magic warmed her palms, and she rubbed them over her arms. The cold subsided, disinterested, and she comfortably straightened.

“I’m fine,” she said.

Azariah gave a knowing chuckle and leaned into her staff. “Have you met them before?”

“The group?” Iona settled a hand around the strap of her quiver. “I've met them, but I don’t know them.”

“If first impressions through sending are anything to go by, I take it they’re quite interesting?”

“That is one way to put, yes. Chaotic feels like a better fit, based on what I saw.”

Azariah clicked her tongue and grinned into the distance. “I look forward to it.”


	7. Luck

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Iona bids Theotae goodbye before she leaves for the Feywild.

[108]

Iona stood on the landing of the Raethran Estate as dusk purpled the sky. Lady Theotae’s – band? – assembled around the front gates, conversing amongst each other. With them were Symania and Azariah, standing to the side and observing. Azariah smiled and leaned over to Symania to dole out comments, but Symania looked about as impressed as Iona felt when she first retrieved the group.

Theotae turned before her with a swish of blonde hair, chin held high. She wore her armour, swords, longbow, and all – a look Iona had seen countless times, but rarely without her accompanying her. Even outside of Syngorn, Iona was a burr in her side.

A strange feeling arose in her chest – a mingling tide of emotions she’d all felt in turn, but never all at once. It was odd to look at Theotae and not know if she would see her the next morning or several years later. But she trusted she would see her again all the same, so she hushed the most violent voices of her emotions.

“Well, Iona, this looks like goodbye for now. I trust you’ll be able to manage my affairs in my absence?” Theotae asked. It was idle talk – she knew the answer. Iona’s work started as soon as Theotae stepped through the portal.

“I should, yes.”

“Any parting words of wisdom?” she asked with a quirk of the lips. 

“None you haven’t already heard or know for yourself.” Iona shook her head. “Try not to die.”

“No good luck?”

Iona gave a tiny, barely-there smile. “I don’t normally believe in luck – I believe in your skill. But if it would make you feel better, good luck. Maybe luck and chance count for something in the Feywild.” Her smile dipped into a softer, more sincere expression. “I hope you find what you’re looking for.”

Theotae’s smile also waned, marginally. “You and I both, Iona.”

Iona bowed, and Theotae nodded and spun on her heel with another swish of hair to join the others. Iona watched until they disappeared on the crest of the horizon, swallowed by Syngorn’s trees. 


	8. Herald

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Iona learns about what happened in the Feywild.

[119]

Iona’s expectation – or lack thereof – for when Theotae would return remained the same. As the days spilled into weeks, she accepted that the time passage would be months or years. She’d been her aegis for over fifty years, and alive for over two-hundred. However many passed, it wouldn’t compare. In the life of someone who lived to be seven hundred, a single year, or even ten, was a drop in the bucket.

Work consumed that time, initially. Ceremonies, speaking with officials, collecting money, and general administrative duties kept her busy; all tasks Iona had done before, but never for long. She was trained in the art of combat and being vigilant. Patience extended into her temporary job, but only so much that it was passable. She didn’t have the advantage of being a noble. Eventually, the High Warden provided a proper stand-in.

None of it stopped Iona from missing her. No amount of replacements made her home feel less empty without her. 

She and a second bodyguard framed the door to Lady Theotae’s study. Iona did a double-take when she spied Theotae walking up the hallway, still clad in the armour she left in. Her mind almost tricked her into thinking it odd she was outside a place Iona guarded, but that had been her entire year – protecting her house and her reputation instead of the woman herself.

She smiled, unable to resist, Theotae’s appearance a herald of relief and heartfelt joy. Theotae returned it, albeit tiredly, stopping in front of her.

“Welcome back,” Iona greeted, before remembering to bow. The other guard mimicked her.

“It’s good to be home,” Theotae said, voice almost wispy, like smoke. “Can I relieve you to speak?”

Iona nodded. “You’re in charge. I’ll let Serania know.”

Iona poked her head in to explain. She didn’t miss Serania’s brows unknotting at knowing her work would return to normal as well. Iona exited the office and Theotae led her downstairs to the grand entrance and out onto the front lawn, then through a side archway into the gardens proper. Iona simmered with questions every step of the way, but held her tongue. Theotae had answers – she’d waited twelve months, she could wait a minute more.

Theotae walked differently, subtly. Slower, with her chin held less high. Her posture shifted further when they entered the seclusion of the hedges and flowers, like the mother of all exhaustion pressed down on her shoulders. Concern flared in Iona’s lungs.

Theotae stopped by a circular, marble fountain and turned with the same weary smile. “Is this where we hug?”

Iona tilted her head. “Is it? I didn’t think you were the type.”

“They’re growing on me.”

They embraced, and it was like the garden sighed in relief, like everyone could stop holding their breath about how and when Theotae would emerge from the Feywild. Iona kept it brief, but held Theotae firmly in its time. She knew even with whatever vulnerability this was, she wouldn’t break. 

When they split, Theotae slumped onto the edge of the fountain. Iona joined her, knees folded towards her and hands clasped politely in her lap as water burbled gently at their backs.

“Are Symania and Azariah alright?” Iona asked, the question bursting from her.

“Yes, they’re fine, everyone’s alright,” Theotae assured her, bracing her elbows on her knees. “More than that. We brought back our mother as well as my father.”

Iona straightened, nearly balked. “He’s alive?”

“He’s been alive this whole time. I would introduce you, but he’s suddenly found himself immeasurably busy. Our mother went to Westruun with the others.”

“I see.” A pause. “Did you find the answers you were looking for?”

Theotae explained the story at length. Twelve action-packed days of knights, the City of Starlight, being held hostage, learning of her heritage, and the most wicked place of all: the Theatre. Who its master was, his demise, the contract. Her death.

Iona sucked in a breath at that, but soothed her nerves just as quick. Theotae was alive, in the present, her death no more than a paragraph on a page. She wrapped up with their escape and how she’d learned of the time inflation. Iona soaked in the story, lips drying together in her silence. The sun inched along in the sky while she remained fixed, another statue in the garden to hear a story she wasn’t a part of but deeply moved by all the same.

The yearning staked in her was disappointed for being absent. She wanted to be confided in, wanted to be available for the thick of her strife as Theotae was for hers. It was fortunate she had Azariah and Symania, two women of greater wisdom – and was she not confiding in her now, catching her up? Lowering her shield?

“I can’t say that wouldn’t have happened if I were there,” Iona eventually said, wetting her lips. “Sometimes it comes down to the skin of our teeth.” She shifted, wanted to put a hand on her forearm, her hand, anything – she settled with laying it on her shoulder, beside a leather pauldron. “I’m glad everything turned out alright, in the end.”

“I see my estate is still intact,” Theotae joked, tipping her head towards the mansion breaking the line of hedges, its higher floors bundled in trees.

“I would’ve needed a few more weeks to run it into the ground." Iona squeezed once before dropping her hand. “When we realized you would be gone longer, they gave you a proper proxy. Much didn’t actually change for me.”

Theotae’s eyeline softened, towards the stone pathway. “Things may change now that I've returned.”

“In what way? Does your father take over?”

Theotae scoffed. “Oh, no. He needs to retire. I’m not giving up my position.” Some of the Theotae Iona knew best emerged, leaning back and lifting a foot onto the fountain’s curb to drape an arm over her knee. “But Syngorn – it’s become clear to me that we’re in need of change. I don’t know how, or when, but – I think that’s what I’d like, moving forward.”

“I've been saying that for years,” Iona murmured, not without a pinch of bitterness.

Theotae’s brow knotted in apology. “I know.”

“What really convinced you?”

“Family.”


	9. Luck pt.2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Theotae says goodbye to Iona before she leaves for Westruun.

[126]

The tree for transport to Westruun awaited in the Raethran Estate gardens. Theotae escorted them, stopping Iona by the arm a few dozen paces before it; Azariah walked past to wait by its trunk, mottled with sunlight through the evergreen canopy. Iona turned. Theotae’s expression was an arrangement of subtle woe and pride – did Iona look so pensive when she bid her goodbye for the Feywild?

Iona hadn’t _really_ considered Theotae’s death a possibility when she last left, and it cast a gloom in a small corner of her mind, the reality of it. But rationale won out; if she were to die, she hoped those with the power to raise her would try – and if they failed, her will was in her mother’s hands.

Every mission, every call to arms ferried the risk of death. This was no different.

“Thank you again for agreeing to take this on,” Theotae started, hand floating down to her side. “I wouldn’t ask just anyone, of course.”

“So you’ve said, and I hope I've made it clear that I’m more than willing to go. Fortunately, I don’t think I’ll be gone for twelve months.”

“I wouldn’t ask it of you if I knew it would take that long.” Theotae smiled. “You said something about not believing in luck, but I wanted to wish it to you anyway.”

“You wouldn’t send me as a representative only on luck,” Iona said, cheeks and ears involuntarily warming. “But if it’s from you, I’ll carry it with me.”

She levered an arm. Theotae eyed it, clasped her wrist, and tugged her into a short hug with a muffled, “Oh, sod it.” Iona started, but recovered and returned it – she didn’t know when she’d next have the chance.


	10. Disappoint

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Iona meets with the Margrave and his mother.

[126]

Iona was far more prepared for her second venture into Westruun’s winter. Her fur-lined coat swayed with her step as she entered the Margrave’s Keep at the heels of a guard, one hand secured around the strap of her quiver and the other gripping a travel bag. 

The Margrave and his mother rose in unison, more out of shock than respect, she suspected. The boy’s eyebrows jumped in surprise while Tania’s furrowed in confusion. 

Last time Iona was inside Westruun, the Margrave’s father was alive and spoke over a feast. Aeofwic was growing into the shape of him, but only physically – from what she understood, he was running the town differently, or at least trying to while his magisterial mother stood at his back and manipulated his hand. 

Word did reach Syngorn about that. It might not have landed on Iona’s ears had she not been temporarily assigned as Theotae’s second. 

“You’re not Lady Theotae,” Tania observed. 

“No, I’m not,” Iona said, squaring her shoulders. “I’m sorry to disappoint.”

“It’s—not a disappointment,” Aeofwic assured, pattering down the short stairwell to the throne to meet her. Tania followed, but slower, measuring the size and air of her. “We just thought she’d send word if she was sending someone else.”

Iona lowered her bag to the floor. “She couldn’t be spared, unfortunately.” She bowed. “I’m Tesserarius Iona Elhaine, Lady of the Redwood’s Aegis. I’ll be acting in her place.”

“Did the Lady of the Redwood give a reason why she couldn’t attend?” Tania asked, stopping beside her son.

Iona rose. “She was absent for over a year because of the Feywild,” she explained. “There’s too much work she needs to catch up with.”

“I see. Is there any more to your title we should know? It seems shorter than usual.”

Iona raised an eyebrow. “You can add Slayer of the Storm Wyvern if you’re feeling fancy.”

Tania’s lips thinned into a white line, then formed a terse smile. Iona made unwavering eye contact, trying to gauge – was she relieved or disappointed there was more to her name? What did she expect?

Genuine reaction or not, Iona had already grown used to being at the sword-point of people who were unhappy she wasn’t Lady Theotae. The disdain of elves above her weighed far heavier than a woman who wouldn't live a quarter of her age. It didn’t matter that she wasn’t Lady Theotae – she was the one who chose and sent her. 

“Guards, take Miss Elhaine’s bag and show her where she can stay for the night,” Tania instructed. 

Iona allowed it, swallowing her urge to protest. Aeofwic leaned into her line of sight, beaming. “I’ll contact the Saviours of Westruun, so they should show within the next day. Feel free to explore the city, but you’re also welcome to dine with us, if you want?”

A note of hope peaked his adolescent voice. Iona nodded. She could learn more over supper.


	12. Choice

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Iona reflects on the Fuckpack over a bath.

[127]

Iona smothered a squeak at the mention of a hot spring out back. She donned a relieved smile for Kora in its place, wished her goodnight, and carried herself outside.

The Stormcrest Mountains had natural springs, but they were a luxury she rarely had time for. Paired with the day she’d had, it was a blessing taken form, like her constant searching for an answer to the day’s – admittedly trivial – trials were answered. With a group that slept a full eight hours, she would make the most of every scrap of peace she could scavenge.

Submerged with her hair up, she leaned over the edge and pulled her pack to her, digging out her journal and ink. The paper was magically water-proofed, and she wrote on the stone curb of the bath.

She dated the corner, then scratched out a series of notes. It was meant to be a practical source of information about the trade, but she freed a deluge of thoughts and concerns.

Honestly came forward. She felt clumsy and out of place, like she was finding her sea legs and the others were the rocking boat underfoot. She was used to soldiers taking breaks and fooling around, of course, she was one of them, but she was equally used to a certain level of decorum. Was her lifestyle placid? Had she become too comfortable? Was their norm part of a greater norm for the continent, or were they every bit as odd as strangers claimed they were?

Did every minute she spend with them count as working, or was she allowed her relaxation as well?

She was so used to having rank and being in the company of adults. Everything she learned today she learned on the fly. She was beginning to understand why Symania kept her distance, but Iona wasn’t satisfied with that; loneliness would eat her up. Unlike her contemporary, she didn’t have her Ladyship or Azariah to keep her balanced. She sailed her sojourn alone.

She struggled to connect what she knew about them with what she witnessed. She didn’t mean to aggravate, but she could tell she was. She would probably continue to until she adjusted.

Elspeth – whether intentionally or not – suggested she’d seen some horrors, which didn’t comfort her any more than having children there to start. Desensitized made it worse – and they didn’t deserve to be thrown into more just because they were capable of enduring it.

A long, gusty sigh escaped her; she sunk into the spring until her head nested in the crook of her elbow and the words vanished into thin blurred lines. Westruun made its choice – and so long as choice was involved, she needed to accept that.

Tomorrow, she conceded, she would try and ask fewer questions.


End file.
